sábado, 30 de noviembre de 2013

Why did you give no hint that nightThat quickly after the morrow's dawn,And calmly, as if indifferent quite,You would close your term here, up and be goneWhere I could not followWith wing of swallowTo gain one glimpse of you ever anon!

Never to bid good-byeOr lip me the softest call,Or utter a wish for a word, while ISaw morning harden upon the wall,Unmoved, unknowingThat your great goingHad place that moment, and altered all.

Why do you make me leave the houseAnd think for a breath it is you I seeAt the end of the alley of bending boughsWhere so often at dusk you used to be;Till in darkening danknessThe yawning blanknessOf the perspective sickens me!

You were she who abodeBy those red-veined rocks far West,You were the swan-necked one who rodeAlong the beetling Beeny Crest,And, reining nigh me,Would muse and eye me,While Life unrolled us its very best.

Why, then, latterly did we not speak,Did we not think of those days long dead,And ere your vanishing strive to seekThat time's renewal? We might have said,"In this bright spring weatherWe'll visit togetherThose places that once we visited."

Well, well! All's past amend,Unchangeable. It must go.I seem but a dead man held on endTo sink down soon. . . . O you could not knowThat such swift fleeingNo soul foreseeing--Not even I--would undo me so!

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock."Now they are all on their knees,"An elder said as we sat in a flockBy the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures whereThey dwelt in their strawy pen,Nor did it occur to one of us thereTo doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weaveIn these years! Yet, I feel,If someone said on Christmas Eve,"Come; see the oxen kneel,

"In the lonely barton by yonder coombOur childhood used to know,"I should go with him in the gloom,Hoping it might be so.

An August Midnight

IA shaded lamp and a waving blind,And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:On this scene enter--winged, horned, and spined -A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;While 'mid my page there idly standsA sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .

IIThus meet we five, in this still place,At this point of time, at this point in space.- My guests parade my new-penned ink,Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink."God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?They know Earth-secrets that know not I.

My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a
follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new
culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human
respect.

My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a
follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new
culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human
respect.